


A flaming heart

by framboise



Series: A Dæmon Bestiary of Westeros [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Brooding, Castle Black, Daemons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Possessive Behavior, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-05-25 12:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14977376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: It was said that the Lady Melisandre had no dæmon, that the red locket of the type to hold insect dæmons that she wore around her neck was empty, and that this was the reason why she was the way she was - strange, otherworldly, terrifying,red- why her gaze could make you sweat and shiver, and why, no matter how close she stood to it, the fire could not burn her.Stannis did not pay such nonsense much mind, people could not survive for long without a dæmon and here she was, surviving, he thought dryly as he watched her glide across the frozen top of the Wall looking remarkably full of health. It was jealousy, he decided as she huddled impertinently close to him in the cage on the way down, an attempt to undermine her position beside him, and he would not brook it.





	A flaming heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Adadzio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adadzio/gifts).



> A gift for the supremely talented Adadzio, because her gorgeous fics have me shipping Stannis/Melisandre like burning, and if you haven't read any of her fics yet you should go and do that [now](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adadzio/pseuds/Adadzio).
> 
> This story is part of a series of standalone canon-divergent His Dark Materials AUs with various pairings.
> 
> *content note: Melisandre has a reaction to memories of her past traumas (which are not made explicit in this story).

 

 

It was said that the Lady Melisandre had no dæmon, that the red locket of the type to hold insect dæmons that she wore around her neck was empty, and that this was the reason why she was the way she was - strange, otherworldly, terrifying, _red_ \- why her gaze could make you sweat and shiver, and why, no matter how close she stood to it, the fire could not burn her.

Stannis did not pay such nonsense much mind, people could not survive for long without a dæmon and here she was, surviving, he thought dryly as he watched her glide across the frozen top of the Wall looking remarkably full of health. It was jealousy, he decided as she huddled impertinently close to him in the cage on the way down, an attempt to undermine her position beside him, and he would not brook it. Or else perhaps his men had lost their minds here - here where the northern winds screamed past one's windows all the night through; where the snow drifted into silent deadly traps for anyone walking abroad; where the food was almost worse, Stannis sometimes thought, than that of Storm's End halfway through a siege.

The drivel he heard when he passed men huddling in doorways like washerwomen, or scurrying late to the training yards, tested his wrothful patience, voices rising from the stories below or drifting through some icy crack in the walls seemed to taunt him - _she doesn't have a dæmon, she's an abomination....aye, but a pretty one...shut up with you...none in the Shadow lands have dæmons but all of them crave them and want to steal your own...they do, do they?...maybe she wants to steal Stannis's...she'd not need to steal it, have you not seen them together...  
_

He gritted his teeth on their insults towards her, on their grimy lusts for her, and bristled at their words on his dæmon. It was true that Proudwing sometimes seemed to favour Melisandre to himself; it had been so since the very beginning when his dæmon had, without a word to him, alighted on her shoulder while they were speaking - while he was interrogating this foreign priestess - on the ramparts in the first few weeks of her time on Dragonstone.

It made his heart seem to race to think about it, how Proudwing's feathers had looked against the copper red of her hair, how Melisandre had raised a hand towards Proudwing unthinkingly, a warm smile on her face, before she seemed to gather her wits and clutch her skirts instead. If she had touched his dæmon _then_ he would have had just cause to throw her out of his keep, to banish her from his sight. _Then_ , but not now, now that he and Melisandre shared one shameful bed, now that she felt free to scratch her fingers into Proudwing's preening ruff and unman Stannis completely.

Lovers might touch one another's dæmon and yet Stannis had not touched hers, he had not seen it or heard it, he did not even know its name or sex.

Proudwing had little to say on the topic of Melisandre's dæmon, except for a scoff that sounded much like her human's whenever she heard someone opine that Melisandre was dæmon-less. She said that Melisandre would reveal her dæmon in time or not, and there was little they could do about it. His dæmon had always been irritatingly even-keeled so it was left to Stannis to turn his irritation, his curiosity, inwards.

Sometimes he caught himself staring at the locket around her neck, its ruby-red sides glinting with the fires and candles in the room, strange shadows seeming to shift about inside of it. Her dæmon was a red beetle, he imagined, a beetle whose scales were like gems themselves, and he dreamt of it, scuttling along his fingers, roaming across his collarbone, silly boyhood dreams. Or perhaps it was not a beetle but a tiny jewelled snake with eyes as red as its human, small enough to struggle to circle his wrist. Yet sometimes when he woke from such dreams he remembered the sensation, not of scales or of plates, but of feathers, softer than those of Proudwing, brushing against his cheek, tickling his breast above where his heart beat steady and slow.

He had become sentimental, he feared, about his red priestess. Sentimental and jealous and foolish and angry and frightened and a pale shadow of the man he ought to be - yet did he not also feel twice the man he was when he laid with her, when she put a hot hand to his cheek and told him with a certainty that made his gut tremble that he was the man she had been waited for, praying for?

A shadow of a man, twice a man, half a man - his mind was like a child's _riddle_ , he thought one night and gritted his teeth, leaving her behind in his bed and stumbling out into the cold, furs tight around him.

It was painful not to look back at the threshold of his room, at her pale limbs against the furs, at the curtain of red flame on their pillow, at her red eyes watching him knowingly. It should not be _painful_ to leave a room, he must get himself together, he must banish all foolish thoughts, seven hells he was supposed to be a _King_.

Proudwing landed on his shoulder, stretching out her wings so he felt them brush his cheek as he leaned against a railing, staring up at the silhouette of the Wall, the beacons shimmering spots of light, the shadows of several bird dæmons flying above.

"Why don't you ask her," Proudwing said.

"What, like a boy with his mother - please may I see your dæmon?" Stannis sneered at the very thought. "We are not married," he said, clenching fists that felt like ice in the cold, "I have no need to see it _."_

But he wanted to, they both knew that. He brushed some snow from Proudwing's feather with a stiff knuckle. "It's too cold out here to be standing about speaking nonsense," he said and turned back to his chambers, as if the cold was the reason for returning so soon, and not the lady in his bed.

Melisandre had been awake when he had left, as she always seemed to be, but when he pushed the door to his room open he found her slumped in a doze, an uncommon sight. Knowing that she could not see him, he looked at her and drunk his fill, as Proudwing perched upon the bedpost and did the same.

He fingered a lock of her hair, softer than any silk he had ever touched and yet his hands and limbs were still clumsy with the cold and his wrist twitched, nudging his thumb against her shoulder and making her startle awake and cower from him, a hand raised as if to push him, or whoever else she had dreamt of, away.

"My lady," he said, startled too by her response, feeling clumsy and oafish and angry, did she not know him? "are you—"

"I am well," she said, composing herself, turning her head to stare at the fire. But he could still see the tremble in her jaw.

"I would never hurt you," he said and then flushed and turned his back to her, shucking off his furs, rubbing a hand through the beard that had become unruly in the north.

"I know, my king."

"Then why do you react thus," he said, hating how petulant he sounded. He sighed and turned and there she was, red smile in place, body languid and inviting, no trace of her fear remaining.

"You need a shave," she said, as he approached the bed. "I shall give you one on the morrow."

"You will do nothing of the sort," he scoffed, "you are not my manservant. To bed now, it's late," he said, settling beside her underneath the furs, feeling enveloped by the spice of her perfume.

"The night is long, is it not," she said, sliding a warm hand down his stomach that made his stomach tremble.

"Take your prayers elsewhere, I am too weary tonight."

"Too weary?" she teased in her silvery voice, pressing her naked form against him - and how had he forgotten that she was naked under the furs? - and then stroked his hardening manhood with her fingers.

"Woman—" he began and then she kissed him and swallowed his words.

Her body was pliant, welcoming, her skin warm under his hands, and in moments he felt himself ablaze and turned her onto her back to thrust inside of her, groaning at the wet heat of her, at the way she chased his mouth like she was starving for him. He tried to be gentle with her, remembering the look on her face when he woke her, remembering those other rare moments when he had seen from afar a flicker of pain passing across her face as if drawn from a memory—

He had been surprised the first time he realised she was vulnerable, and it angered him, that surprise, for she was a woman of flesh and blood was she not, and not some spirit come to haunt him, even though he sometimes thought she might be. Perhaps it was her flimsy gowns, the way she bared parts of her pale skin - an ankle, her neck, the tops of her breasts, a slim wrist - to the northern winds without flinching, or how she stared into the fire without blinking, how she brushed away every brusque order he gave her. That she was not wholly infallible, that she ate and sometimes slept, that he could bruise her, that she had suffered sorrows in her past - all this nurtured a tender flame inside of him that he did his best to ignore.

He tried to be gentle with her but she would not have it, she clutched her nails tightly in his back, dragged them down to dig into the meat of his backside and tug him into her, she bucked her hips up, she bit at his earlobe, and so he sped up his thrusts and made his kisses rough, muffling her wild moans and his own animal grunts. And when he felt close, he rubbed her _there_ , where she had shown him, with one calloused finger, and he felt a dark pride when her back arched and he felt her fluttering around him.

But when he dipped his head to rest in the hollow of her neck he felt the sharp edges of her necklace and his own climax was coloured by sadness, the pleasure dimmed by one thought, _she does not trust me_.

They settled side by side on the bed, fire dimmed to embers now.

"I would never hurt you," he whispered to the night, like one of her prayers, thinking of the locket around her neck, of her dæmon shut away from the world, her dæmon which he longed to touch with a gentle hand, to hold. And then he swallowed on his shame and turned his back to her, grit his teeth and told himself to _sleep_ as he felt the brush of air from Proudwing settling on the table beside him.

 

She spoke again of shaving him the next day once they had broken their fasts and as he was dressing limbs that felt stiff with the cold.

"It is a job for a barber, not a woman," he reminded her crossly.

"You don't think women ever trim and shave their hair?" she said as she wandered his room with the air of someone who owned it, idly touching things - the mantelpiece, his desk, a candleholder on the wall - as his eyes tracked her form. "I have journeyed through lands where the fashion is to be completely bare."

He thought of the copper curls between her legs, of the soft brush of hair in each pale armpit that he longed sometimes to nuzzle.

"Don't cut your hair, I forbid it."

She raised an impertinent eyebrow. "I did not mean the hair on my head, my king."

"I know that," he gritted out.

"As you command," she said, gliding closer to him, touching his chest with her hand, smiling so sweetly his mouth twitched as if it might just smile back. "And may I shave you now?"

He sighed wearily, "As you wish, my lady, but if you nick the skin even once, you shall have made your king bleed and I will have no recourse but to put you over my knee," he said dryly and she laughed and he tried not to feel proud.

A young steward brought in hot water, his cheeks flushing when he glanced at Melisandre, scurrying out again with a low bow, and Stannis sat himself in his chair, clutching each armrest with a tight grip as his priestess formed a lather on the tops of his cheeks and his neck.

"Is your aim to make me look ridiculous?" he asked.

"No," she said, her hot breath glancing across his face as she bent her head closer and began to stroke her blade along the skin, "just a neater version of yourself."

" _Neat_ ," he scoffed. "Yes, that is utmost in my mind, not gathering the mountain clans and dealing with the Wildlings and taking Winterfell back from the Boltons and all such other things," his voice trailing off as she tipped his head back and her blade scraped across the vulnerable stretch of his neck.

When she had finished with her blade she took up scissors and trimmed the rest of it, her hot fingertips tilting his head this way and that, stroking through the short hairs of his beard, tripping across his lips, stirring an upswelling of emotion inside of him. He wanted to bow his head and rest it on her full breasts, on the sweet softness of her middle, to hold her tightly by her small waist. He wanted to lose himself in her, to listen to her whispering words and believe them true.

"There," she said once she had finished, and she studied his face attentively, maybe even fondly, and he was just about to give in and tug her down to his lap to kiss when her eyes suddenly looked away and she frowned, hands pausing on his shoulders like she had forgotten them.

"My lady?" he asked but it was a few moments before she seemed to hear him, she was still glancing to the side, towards the window, some strange smile twitching at her lips.

She hummed a distracted noise and, irritated, he stood up and brushed her hands away, and she made no move to put them back, turning to the door as if to leave him.

"Accompany me to the top of the Wall," he said.

"As you command, my king," she replied, without looking at him.

He clenched his jaw. What was this? Some game? Why was she distracted thus?

As they rose in the cage alongside the Wall, she did not lean against him or sway close, but looked out at the snows, her hands held before her neatly. Proudwing usually flied free of the cage but today he stood on Stannis's shoulder, his feet flexing through the thick furs.

When they were near the top, the dog dæmon belonging to the Night's Watch man accompanying them murmured something and Melisandre smiled at the creature, causing Stannis to fist his hands in his gloves and glower at the man and his dæmon, neither of whom looked remorseful, and then the cage came to a stop and Stannis stalked out.

It was a bright, blustery day, the wind strong enough to steal one's breath and the view startling clear, but Stannis had no inclination to look at it, he could see none but her, her hair whipping in the air like a red banner, the silk of her dress moulding to her form as she gazed towards the south as if searching for something.

She was distracted and it made him wroth, brusque, as he pulled her towards him— did she not wish to lie with him any longer? had her god changed his mind, was she to take up with some other lord now? —his hands clutched her tightly, he held her chin in a bruising grip as he kissed her, as if by doing so he could keep her by his side, as if he might _seduce_ her, he thought bitterly, and he felt the burn of embarrassment in his gut but he did not stop. He needed her - the taste of her, the heat, the way her body felt against his - he was dependent on her now to warm the nights, dependent on her words, her care, to soothe the bruises the world stamped on his spirits.

A shout of warning interrupted him and reluctantly he drew back from a panting, kiss-bruised Melisandre, feeling a pitiful swell of masculine pride at how he had ruffled her, and then his gaze fixed on something on the horizon: a glimmering light in the air moving towards them. He put a hand on his sword and pushed her behind him as he tried to understand what he saw. It was aflame, the object, but moving too slowly to be a missile or an arrow.

"Stannis-" Melisandre said behind him but he was too distracted, too fearful of her safety, to think of correcting her impudence at using such a name in the company of others.

"Stay back, my lady," he said as the object moved closer, gleaming like a fire lit in the air. Was it some kind of lightning? Some weapon of magic?

The men on top of the Wall were shouting, hurrying to find their arrows, and Melisandre clutched at him tightly. "Your Grace, call them off, _please_ ," she begged, just as the vision in front of him coalesced into an impossible sight - it was _bird_ aflame that flew towards them with a trailing tail and long fiery wings.

"What in the seven hells," he muttered. "Stand down!" he called to the men, his heart beating frantically in his chest though he could not explain why.

"Melisandre?" he questioned, his voice thin, for he had but one impossible thought in his mind at seeing such a creature, its wings streaming sparks, its eyes, he saw now, glowing _red_.

He felt her nod her head against his shoulder and then she moved away from him, leaning out towards the edge of the Wall, her arms aloft like she was praying to her fires. The bird alighted on her hand, throwing its blazing shadow across her, touching its beak tenderly to her cheek as she brought it towards her. Woman and bird appeared as one flaming red vision, though the priestess did not smoke with fire nor appear to be burned by her companion, and Stannis felt his stomach quiver, felt nonsensical tears prick at his eyes.

"His name is Perzys," she said, looking up at Stannis shyly, her fingers stroking through its feathers.

Stannis cursed his own foolishness. Of course a woman like Melisandre would not have some scuttling beetle for a dæmon, hidden away in a box, of course she would have some luminous creature like this.

"What-" he said, but his mouth was dry, he felt bewitched by the bird, by its strange shape and the blaze of its pelt that now looked like bright feathers and now flickering flames.

"I sent him to search for some answers in a land far from here," she said.

It was said that some wizards and foreign sages could separate themselves from their dæmons and stretch their connection for miles, and in every town and city there was always at least one boastful idiot who said he could do the same until he was humbled by his fellow man, but Stannis had never paid such rumours much mind, never believed them to be true. And yet it was inescapable, here was Melisandre and here was her dæmon, who had until now been abroad, thousands of leagues away from her. How she must have missed him, he thought, dumbfounded at the notion of being so far from Proudwing, how she must have ached at the heart.

"And now he is returned to me," she said, smiling, he thought, like she might have when she was a young girl, bright and happy. She laughed as her dæmon moved to whisper something in her ear, and Stannis felt utterly charmed, dumb with admiration and wonder at the both of them.

Proudwing had lifted into the air at the first sight of her dæmon and was still gliding back and forth across the top of the Wall over their heads. Now, Perzys took flight too and Stannis watched anxiously as the two of them circled one another, fearful of his dæmon burning herself on the flames, before Proudwing returned to his shoulder without making contact.

Now it was to he that Perzys flew towards as Stannis stood stock-still, his breath tight, his eyes surely wide as an owl, as he felt his own hand rise.

If her dæmon burned him, so be it, he thought, if he lived with a scar from touching its flames forever, then that would be a scar he wore willingly.

He squinted when the light of the bird's flaming feathers drew closer, his head pulling back from the wave of heat the dæmon spread before himself, but he did not move his outstretched hand, thinking back to the first time Proudwing had taken the form of a goshawk and flown to his arm.

He held his breath, eyes trailing along Perzys's massive flaming wings, his tail tracing sparks in the air, and then the dæmon landed with careful claws on his wrist, and though Stannis felt the heat of the bird like he stood at the very precipice of some inferno, it did not burn him, instead reminding him only of his lady, of the heat of her mouth on his skin, the fever his body burned with whenever she glanced at him.

She came to him now, as if called by his thoughts, and watched as he ran a finger down the feathers of her dæmon's breast, the shimmering shades of red and orange and yellow and gold.

"Beautiful," he murmured and both woman and bird seemed to preen, and then Perzys took flight and he and Proudwing tangled above them as Melisandre pressed a burning kiss to his cheek.

"But what is he?" he asked, a small measure of his wits returning to him, feeling a flush of embarrassment at his fawning behaviour in front of an audience of men who, flustered themselves, now looked elsewhere; and yet he did not let go his arm around her waist, he did not step back.

"That is a long story," she said and he scoffed.

"And this," he said, tapping the locket around her neck.

"A longer story still."

He shook his head and kissed her, "maddening woman," he murmured against her lips as she clutched at the front of his furs, the cold winds of the north whipping up a flurry of snow and the heat of her dæmon glowing like a hearthfire above them.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if you end up here, I know this ship is teeny-tiny so I'd love to know what people think! :)
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset for this story [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/175952179452/it-was-said-that-the-lady-melisandre-had-no-d%C3%A6mon)


End file.
